White Flag
by Alphie
Summary: Neither one can help the way they feel. And neither one will change. Set at the end of S2 and into S3. WIP
1. Chapter 1

AN: While I've written fan fic for years, this is my first Sherlock fan fiction. I don't have a beta reader, so if you spot an error, please let me know. This will be a 3 chapter fic.

_I know you think that I shouldn't still love you, _

_Or tell you that. _

_But if I didn't say it, _

_well I'd still have felt it _

_where's the sense in that?_

_I promise I'm not trying to make your life harder_

_Or return to where we were _

_I will go down with this ship _

_And I won't put my hands up and surrender _

_There will be no white flag above my door _

_I'm in love and always will be _

_~ Dido_

**MOLLY**

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

"It's what _needs_ to be done."

A chill suddenly washed over her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the morgue or the stone cold corpse lying on the slab in front of her.

"I'll need to... dress him... properly." The man was naked, and yet it was the idea of putting clothes _on _him that made her stutter. Brilliant.

"Yes, I brought in the necessary items. You'll find them in the locker room in the far back stall."

She only nodded.

He continued. "And when this whole affair is over, you needn't bother with having them washed. Just toss them out."

A blink was her reply.

There was a long pause while he just looked down at the corpse. She could tell he was taking in everything about the dead man – things that might give the game away no matter how insignificant. Things no normal person would see. His eyes always danced when he was figuring things out.

His beautiful, ice blue eyes. She loved watching those eyes, so long as they were trained on other people. She hated those eyes when he fixed them on her. Because he only really ever looked at her when he needed her to do something for him. And he would use his deductive powers to find the precise words that would persuade her to help him. And she always helped him.

Oh, who was she kidding? She would help him regardless of what he said. At least it meant he would talk to her. And that she could hear his voice. His delicious voice that affected her more deeply than she would ever admit.

But again, he was sure to know that as well. He knew everything it seemed.

"He's taller than I am," he said, bringing her focus back to grim reality.

"Easy to fudge," she offered. "A fall like that will cause certain spinal damage. His true height will be hidden."

He hummed thoughtfully.

"I'm more concerned about the cheekbones," she said with a smile, a weak attempt at lightening the dark mood that seemed to have settled over them. "That is, I mean, your face – the bone structure is, well, very – it's very - "

"Angular."

"Striking."

They spoke at the same time offering up thoughts on his appearance; his thoughts came from fact while hers from emotional opinion. He tilted his head to the right ever so slightly in surprise. She blushed crimson.

"What I mean is... er..." she tried to cover, "your face is very distinctive, and this man's is... well, common."

"You will just have to be careful that he falls face first onto the pavement. And that there is plenty of blood to detract from too much notice of facial differentiation." He smiled at her. Actually smiled. While plotting his fake suicide. "Besides, by the time John reaches me, I should be in place so that he will see _me_ up close and personal and not this poor chap. No, I only need the corpse to actually hit the pavement for me. That and serve as a body in the autopsy and burial."

It was so cold, so calculated. It churned her stomach. And brought tears to her eyes.

"Sherlock, are you certain this is what you want to do?"

He frowned at her. "You already asked me that, once, Molly. My answer has not changed, nor will it change." Then a beat. "Are you _crying_?"

She shook her head no in an obvious lie. "I just don't know how you can be so calm about this!"

"I'm not calm, I'm just being logical. This is what has to be done to convince Moriarty."

"I know, I just..." she sniffed. "I can't imagine coming to work and not having you pester me for samples." She chanced a glance up at him. "I'll miss you."

His eyes shifted somewhat. "You do realize that this plan ensures I will walk away perfectly fine. I'm not _really_ going to be dead; I just have to make everyone believe that I am."

"I know but... I..."

"You...?"

How was she supposed to say this without sounding like a teenager with a raging crush?

"I will have to be the one to pronounce you dead and... and... " She shook her head. "Honestly, Sherlock, a person should never have to do that for someone they... well... that they care... about."

He squinted at her. "Caring? Really, Molly..."

"Yes, I care. Stupid as it is." He knew she cared about him. Cared _for_ him. He had to know... especially after Christmas. "Which is why I find it difficult to do this!"

"But don't you see, Molly, it's the key to the whole plan! You are what makes this work. Moriarty isn't focusing on _you_. I can't ask John or Lestrade because he's watching them for the importance he feels they have in my life. But not you. He's not watching you because you're not..."

He stopped.

"Important," she finished. "I get it."

It stung like lemon juice on a paper cut. More like a bullet right through the heart. She knew Sherlock didn't feel deeply for her, but she at least thought she was important given that he always came to her for pathological discoveries.

"No, that isn't what I meant. You are important. I told you so when I asked for your help."

She couldn't look at him. As a distraction, she zipped up the body and slid it back into the locker. "I said I get it. I'm important when you need me to be important. The rest of the time... I'm just..."

"Molly—" He placed a hand on her shoulder, making her freeze in place. "You are important. Moriarty is a fool for not seeing it."

She wanted to believe him. Yet as she looked up through her lashes at his handsome face, she knew he was once again lying and saying what she needed to hear so that she would help him. Moriarty had seen the truth. Molly was so insignificant to Sherlock that he didn't think twice about insulting her or her boyfriends. He only wanted her around for pathological help and to provide him with samples. Moriarty knew Sherlock used her... which was why is was so easy for Moriarty to use her as well.

But, as always, the smile Sherlock offered was enough to make her heart thud in her chest and her ability to resist weaken.

"I will do as you ask, Sherlock. But I don't think you understand what you are doing. The consequences..."

"The consequences are that no one will really get killed. No one will be hurt."

She barked a laugh in disbelief. "If you think no one will be hurt by your death, then you really don't know anything about your friends."

With cool detachment he said, "They'll get over it." He turned to go, but stopped to add, "Besides, I won't be dead forever."

Every step he took away from her broke her heart a little more. He would leave, and she would stay. What little hope she ever had for him to feel something in return for her crumbled as the distance between them grew. Not that she ever had much hope to begin with. Still, she knew she'd always love him. How could she not?


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thank you to everyone who read the story even if you didn't review. Starting into a long established fandom is hard, so I am grateful to those who have chosen to follow the story: Bucky5, Tarte Hearte, hannabeast1, Khione'sKid.306, Ms90sgirl, ashlanielle, and theSepthis. **

**Once again, the mistakes are all mine as I have no beta. If you see something fixable, great! Let me know how you like it! Reviews are love!**

_I know I left too much mess and destruction_

_to come back again _

_And I caused nothing but trouble _

_I understand if you can't talk to me again _

_And if you live by the rules of "it's over" _

_then I'm sure that that makes sense_

_I will go down with this ship _

_And I won't put my hands up and surrender _

_There will be no white flag above my door _

_I'm in love and always will be _

_~Dido~_

**SHERLOCK**

She gasped and spun around, a smile lighting up her face as she took in his appearance. _That _was the reaction for which he was hoping! _That_ was expected – typical – especially for Molly. Surprise followed by joy. Unlike John who had completely over reacted and managed to get them tossed out of no less than three eating establishments.

Count on Molly to do as expected.

"When did you—"

"I thought that I'd—"

They both spoke at the same time. That left her flustered, and she blushed scarlet. How he'd missed that color. So much more than he'd ever anticipated.

"You first," he said.

"When did you get back?"

"Just. I thought that I'd come here first given that it wouldn't be too great a shock for you to see me since you already knew I was alive."

"Not a shock to see you?" She laughed. "It's been two years, Sherlock. Of course, I'm surprised."

"Not quite two years."

Again she blushed. She was probably remembering the time he spent hiding at her flat using her shower to get cleaned up. Using her phone since he'd tossed his away on the roof of St. Barts. Using her email account because no one would ever suspect Molly to be involved.

Using her.

He wondered when he'd stopped classifying it as "needing Molly" to "using Molly," and yet it had. She had asked him once what he needed. He had said he needed _her_. However, the simple truth was that he didn't necessarily _need_ her, but rather he could _use_ her because she let him.

He wondered when he started feeling guilty for using her.

"So, you came here first?" she asked in a hopeful lilt of which he always took note.

"No, I went to see John."

"Oh..." She looked up at him expectantly.

"It didn't go very smoothly," he added.

"Well, given how much you hurt him..." She caught herself and stopped, redirected, tried to cover. Like she usually did. "I mean, what did you think would happen?"

"Honestly, I thought he'd be thrilled to see me."

Molly chuckled nervously. "Really?"

Her reaction confused him. He'd been wrong at his assumption on how John would respond to the knowledge that he'd faked his death. Yet Molly seemed to expect John to respond negatively. How did this quiet, timid, self depreciating pathologist always manage to see the truth so clearly in others and never herself? Maybe that was the nature of her job - slicing people open to find answers. But how did he - a highly logical, overly observant, borderline sociopath always fail to predict the reactions of the people whose lives mattered to him?

Well, except Molly. He always knew how she would react. She was the one he could always count on to follow the projected emotional pattern. He'd missed her predictability.

"I never said anything," Molly said, drawing his focus. "I almost did once, but I figured if it was safe for him to know, then you would tell him yourself. I didn't want to be the one to bring you harm."

Interesting. She kept the secret, but not because she worried for John's safety; she worried for _Sherlock's_ safety. Having her worry about him was another facet of their relationship that he missed. No one worried quite so fastidiously as Molly did. It didn't escape Sherlock's notice that the warm feeling in his chest that came from knowing Molly - mousy Molly - wanted to protect him was slightly perverse.

Caring is not an advantage. Being cared _about_, on the other hand, was unexpectedly advantageous.

"Are you back for good?" she asked.

"Yes, I think so."

"How - how are you?"

"I'm well, thank you."

"You look...um..."

Her cheeks blushed again, a sure sign that she was emotionally moved by his physical appearance. Another Molly quality that he missed, but he would never admit to feeling pleasure at the way she looked at him. No. Never.

"A little worse for the wear?' he offered when she failed to finish her sentence.

"I was going to say, but then thought... I didn't want to be rude. I mean, You've been away in God knows what kind of horrible circumstance. Of course you'd look... um..."

He hid the smile her stammering encouraged. "Actually, what you see here are not remnants from my trials with Moriarty's network, but rather my harrowing conversation with John."

"John?" she gaped.

"Yes."

"John?" she repeated, the inflection suggesting disbelief. "Did this?"

"Yes."

"He hit you?"

"Yes. Several times."

She blinked and shook her head. "Didn't you tell him you were coming?"

"Why? I wanted to surprise him, much the same as I surprised you."

"Oh, God, Sherlock." She rolled her eyes. "No wonder he hit you."

"It is a wonder! I don't see why he'd be so—"

"You don't see why?" she interrupted, most uncharacteristically. "No, of course you don't." Facing away from him, she took off her lab coat and began readying herself to leave. "To you, we're all just mere mortals waiting to be graced by your superior brilliance, aren't we? I suppose you thought John would jump for joy and shake your hand at a prank well played? That you'd have a laugh and pick up right where you'd left off?"

This was most unlike anything Molly had ever said to him. In the space of a moment, the eyelash batting, flirtatiously hopeful girl he'd come to rely on vanished and was replaced by a brutally honest woman. It was unsettling. She sounded cynical. Pessimistic. Like Sherlock. He didn't like it.

"I figured that John would, after a brief explanation of how I survived, be glad for my safe return and resume working alongside me."

She laughed again as she pulled out her bag and touched up her lip stick, fixed some stray hairs in her braid. "Sherlock, that's not how things work. You don't get to hurt people, make them grieve for you for two years, and then waltz back into their lives without any repercussions."

"Why not? You've accepted me back."

She closed her locker and turned to face him full on. "You're back, yes. But that doesn't mean I wasn't hurt. And it certainly doesn't mean there won't be repercussions. I went two years without a word from you. I knew you didn't die in that fall, but I didn't know you hadn't been killed elsewhere. It's been a long time. I'm not the same person I was two years ago, Sherlock. None of us are the same."

He wanted to argue with her, but was stopped short when she casually reached into her pocket, pulled out a diamond ring, and slipped it onto the fourth finger of her left hand. The motion looked like part of a routine she performed every day at the end of her shift. Naturally, she wouldn't wear rings while performing an autopsy.

The Romans believed there was a vein in the third finger that was directly connected to the heart: the Vena Amoris or Vein of Love. While completely untrue, the belief is partially why people wear wedding rings on that particular finger. And now Molly wore a ring that obviously had to be an engagement ring on that finger.

He didn't quite understand what had just happened. Molly verbally put him in his place? Molly was engaged? And now Molly was walking away from him without swooning or asking him to dinner? He liked it when Molly was predictable. He needed her to be predictable. He couldn't use her if she was unpredictable.

"I have to go, Sherlock." She smiled, and for some unknown reason his heart skipped a beat. "I'm really glad you're back, and I'm sorry John didn't take it well. But I do have to go. Call me if you need anything, ok?"

He nodded, and then she left. _She_ actually walked away from _him_. It didn't take a genius very long to deduce from the lip stick and hair fluff that she was going to see to her fiancé. It did, however, take a genius two long years away and the addition of a golden symbol of devotion offered by someone other than himself to realize he'd just lost the best thing that had ever happened to him.


End file.
